


Lord, Make Me an Instrument

by vaeltaa



Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Work In Progress, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-23 04:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30049584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaeltaa/pseuds/vaeltaa
Summary: The meanest, toughest son of a bitch in the 506th, Lieutenant Speirs left mercy, remorse and compassion behind when he became a soldier; an instrument of the war machine.Eugene Roe joined the regiment to save lives; to be an instrument of hope.What happens when Eugene, a combat medic who is the living embodiment of the very things Speirs had to kill in himself - catches his eye, his interest and his fortified heart?
Relationships: Eugene Roe/Ronald Speirs
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, rarepair in a dead (?) fandom. I should have started this decades ago, but here we are.

_Camp Toccoa, 1942_

It’s dark inside the barracks where Egugene is sitting on his folding bed, untying his boots. 

The rest of the men had already left, for the party thrown in celebration of getting their jump wings. 

The bed squeaks a little when he moves, but otherwise was only a rare, but very welcomed silence. Eugene cherished these few moments of silence and solitude as they were few and far between. 

Only a soft wind and the nocturnal choir of crickets were faintly heard from outside.

He was tired after a long day of running up Curahee and working the Camp’s aid station. A young private had twisted an ankle, and another was running a mild fever. Nothing major, but good training nonetheless. 

Eugene looks up, startled out of his thoughts.

The door to the barracks flings open with enough force to hit the cigarette butt barrel they used to keep the door open on hot days.

A man enters with resolute steps. Eugene doesn’t recognize him as Easy, but in the dim light from outside he can tell the man is a lieutenant, sharp army green tie and all.

The man doesn’t seem to notice Eugene sitting there, and heads straight for a large cardboard box by the door. He seems to know exactly what he was looking for.

Eugene stands at attention, and clears his throat - loudly. 

The man spins around, box in hand. 

“Excuse me, sir,” Eugene begins. The man does not look at all surprised to see him. “I believe those are reserved for Easy Company, sir,” Eugene continues.

The man looks down at the box full of army issue toilet paper wrapped in little individual brown paper satchels he is holding in his arms, then back at Eugene, unblinking. “I know,” he replies matter-of-factly.

Eugene furrows his brow in confusion, but quickly decides not to press the matter. Far be it from him to question an Officer.

“You’re E Company,” the man says and gives Eugene’s belongings on his bed and rack a once-over, noticing the white band with a red cross on his discarded uniform. “Why are you not out drinking with the men, Doc?”

Eugene thinks he can see the glimpse of mischievous curiosity in the man’s dark eyes. He was a good looking man, he thought briefly. “Long day, sir...” Eugene replies before correcting himself, “ _Lieutenant_ …?”

“That is classified,” the man offers before he turns quickly on his heel to leave. He halts for a moment, then turns back towards Eugene. “Oh, and... I was never here,” he says before disappearing back into the night air.

Eugene watches the empty door framing the moonlit barracks outside for a moment, a deep furrow in his brow. It was dark and the man had been largely cast in shadow, but Eugene could have sworn that the Lieutenant had winked at him.

***

Eugene wipes the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and sits on the low porch steps leading into the camp aid station. The barracks were in the middle of the camp, with large red and white crosses painted above the door.

Eugene fishes for a cigarette, finds one and lights it. It was a hot day, the sun beating down on the flattened, yellow grass. Inside the barracks was only one patient, an NCO with an allergic reaction to what was probably a bee sting. It had been a slow day, and Eugene found himself with too much time on his hands for thinking. Staying busy was better.

“Got a light?” a firm voice booms from above him. Eugene looks up, shielding his eyes from the sun, and offers his lighter to the man he recognizes from the night before.

“Lieutenant,” Eugene says as the man sits on the steps beside him, lighting a cigarette that was precariously dangling between his lips. 

Eugene doesn’t bother standing at attention this time - the man wasn’t his commanding officer, and somehow their brief previous encounter flavored the current moment with an air of easy camaraderie. 

“Thanks,” the Lieutenant says and lobs the lighter back into Eugene’s hands.

“If Easy finds out I covered for you...” Eugene says, pointing his cigarette accusingly at the Lieutenant, letting the implications of the sentence hang in the air. “TP’s in short supply.”

The Lieutenant gives Eugene a half-smirk, and he can’t help but return it. Eugene takes another drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke curl on his tongue before exhaling. Out of the corner of his eyes he looks at the other man, sunlight almost reflecting on his well-groomed dark brown hair. He was clean-shaved, and his uniform was impeccable. The man looks at Eugene and he quickly looks away.

“Are you an objector, Doc?” he asks suddenly.

“ _Huh_?” Eugene replies, blinking rapidly to get himself out of his own thoughts.

“Conscientious objectors. That’s what they call you people.”

“What?” Eugene repeats himself. “Uhh, no, I’m no objector, sir” he continues, shaking his head. “Now, I now what you’re thinkin’, but that’s not me. I want to help American troops win the war.”

Eugene shoots a glance at the man, who is staring at him intently. “I just figured, y’know… I’d rather be doin’ it by savin’ lives, not by takin’ them.”

Eugene was caught off guard by the man’s bluntness, but wasn’t prepared to take any shit - not from another NCO nor from an officer. He’d come to learn how medics were seen, as objectors to the cause, or even a threat to morale.

“Is that so,” the Lieutenant says while taking another drag from his cigarette. He looked woefully unimpressed.

“And for each soldier’s life saved, that’s at least ten dead Germans,” Eugene says, making a point of enunciating every word, as if a note written in capital letters. “Approximately,” he finishes with a flick of his hand - his cigarette dripping ash on his boots.

Eugene looks the Lieutenant directly in the eyes, and he notices they’re a deep hazel, glowing amber in the sunlight. “You do prefer your men to be alive 'n ready to fight, _sir_?”

The man returns Eugene’s glare, unblinking for a long moment before he takes a final drag from his cigarette and makes a move to stand up. “Well, when you put it that way, Doc,” he replies and stumps out the cigarette’s last glowing embers on the porch steps.

The man stands and looks at Eugene, and Eugene thinks he might have passed the test. He didn’t know what kind of test, only that there had been one, and that he might have received a passing grade.

The Lieutenant reaches out a hand in front of Eugene, offering him a handshake. Eugene takes it - the grip is solid and strong. 

“Lieutenant Speirs, Dog Company” the man says. “Nice to meet you, Doc.”

He turns and is gone before Eugene has a chance to reply.

***


	2. Chapter 2

_Upottery Airfield, 1944_

A lot has happened since Toccoa. Two years have passed, and Eugene is preparing for the big one - the jump into France. 

The airfield is bustling with activity, men prepping their jump gear and loading supplies on to planes. They’d been ready to go yesterday - and the day before that, but rain and fog curtailed those plans. Eugene was antsy, on edge - not nervous, just eager to get things done. Idle hands are the devil’s plaything, he could hear his mother’s voice say.

It’s a bright day in early June, and the sun was so bright it was nearly white. 

Eugene feels a drop of sweat escape out from under his helmet, down his neck. He sees a young soldier struggling with his leg strap, and quickly helps him out. The soldier gives him a nod in appreciation - all pale-faced under the war paint, and Eugene manages a tight-lipped smile in return as he walks away.

“Doc,” he hears from somewhere, and he knows it’s Lieutenant Winters because not many others called him that. 

“Here,” Winters says and gives Eugene a few boxes reading motion sickness prevention pills. “Hand them out amongst the men, will ya? Thanks, Doc.”

Eugene takes the boxes and nods affirmatively. He was probably going to take one or two himself, and he hoped it would settle the whirlwind in his guts. He fiddles with opening one of the boxes of pills, a difficult task with thick gloves on. 

“Those will make you drowsy,” a voice proclaims suddenly from beside him. Eugene looks up to see a vaguely familiar face underneath streaks of brown and green paint. “Make you lose focus,” Speirs continues. “Not great in active combat.”

Eugene squints. He remembers a shared smoke break and some stolen TP, in what seemed like a decade ago. “With all due respect, Lieutenant - neither is a hundred soldiers upchuckin’ their breakfast,” he says.

Speirs smiles, and it’s nearly jarring, unnatural in the moment, all white teeth against army green and browns. “I like you, Doc,” he replies.

Eugene is thankful then, for the paint hiding the rush of blood creeping up his face. “Haven’t seen you around much,” he says, adjusting his helmet a little on his head. “Didn’t figure you’d remember who I was.”

An Officer calls out for D-Company, and Speirs looks oddly intensely at Eugene, giving him two quick pats on his shoulder. “See you on the other side.”

Eugene watches his back disappearing into the bustling crowd of soldiers and trucks, and finds himself hoping that he would, indeed, see the lieutenant on the other side.

***

_Normandy, D-Day_

The jump didn’t go as planned, and the men were scattered. Some were lost, to the wind or to God’s grace. Dawn was finally rising on the abandoned farm somewhere in France, where the battalion was gathering.

Speirs finds Easy Company’s Lieutenant Winters in the chaos. “Hey, Lieutenant Speirs,” Winters says. 

They shake hands. Speirs found it hard to stand still - the adrenaline from the jump and the early morning hours throbbing in every fibre of his being. He adjusts his Thompson, strapped loosely on his shoulder.

“You’re injured,” Winters says, more of a statement than a question, with a look down - Speirs’ knee was bloody, and he shifted his weight uneasily. “It’s fine,” he says blankly. “We’re still waiting for orders.”

Winters gives him a look. “Well, here’s one - get that looked at.”

Speirs hesitates for a second, before giving Winters a quick nod. He heads off into the crowd, scanning for armbands with red crosses. He spots one of the medics helping a soldier with most of his head covered with bandages. 

“Aid station,” Speirs demands. 

The medic points towards the largest barn house before going back to examining the wounded soldier. 

Speirs walks toward the barn, while trying not to put too much weight on his knee. He didn’t notice the pain - it was more of a physical reflex. 

In his mind, Speirs thinks of a dark haired man from Louisiana. 

He had interrogated an inebriated Easy soldier back in England over one-too-many pints, and learned everything he could about the Doc he was now wanting to find alive.

_Eugene Roe_.

Technician, combat medic, did well in basic training, no infractions, keeps to himself. 

Smooth Cajun accent.

Intense eyes that lingered on Speirs a little too long. Longer than men should look at other men.

Hard to forget.

Speirs nearly thanks his lucky stars for the M24 grenade shrapnel embedded in his left kneecap - and walks inside the building.

***

Eugene, like everyone else, completely missed the drop zone and joined in with other men, strangers - some Able, some Item - and found their way through the dark. 

Eugene’s first casualty was a young private named Evans, from Able. He died with Eugene’s hands on his neck and head, unable and helpless to stop him bleeding out. Eugene’s hands trembled when he let go of the dead soldier. He’d wiped them as clean as best he could on the grass and kept moving.

His hands were now bloodstained once more, busy taking stock of medical supplies inside a barn, now part battalion HQ and a makeshift aid station. It was one of the only structures left standing, and provided some much needed shelter. 

The medics had been kindly offered one small corner section to work.

For a while there, in the early morning hours the wounded men didn’t seem to stop coming. 

Eugene thought there was a lull now, and made sure his station was prepared for the next round. The barn was large, muddy and loud. A few of the more stable wounded had gotten sick beds made out of hay, awaiting transport off the line. Outside he could hear trucks, and men shouting names, orders.

He kneeled down to rinse off his hands as best he could with a bucket they’d filled with rain water. He shook his hands to dry them, and turned toward the entrance when he heard approaching footsteps on the concrete floor. It was the Lieutenant --- 

\--- _Speirs_ , Eugene thinks, and remembers his words on the airfield not even a night ago. His heart nearly skips a beat at the sight of the man, happy to see a familiar face - especially this one. “Lieutenant Speirs,” he greets him.

Speirs heads straight towards him, and Eugene instantly notices a slight limp in the man’s left leg - pant leg stained black with blood and torn up. 

“Doc,” Speirs says in between the unlit cigarette between his lips. “Got orders to see you,” he continues, his helmet casting his eyes in shadow. 

Eugene briefly feels disappointed at the man’s words and tone of voice, no sense of familiarity - but quickly snaps back to the injury at hand.

“Well, sit,” Eugene says, nodding towards a chair that had seen better days next to a table filled with supplies. He shoves some of it aside. “Now, can you bend it?” he asks, grabbing a rag and pouring some antiseptic on it.

Speirs sits, and gives him a short nod. Eugene goes to work, grabbing a hay bail to sit on and starts cleaning the skin around the wound. It wasn’t too deep, but Eugene could see the piece of shrapnel that would need to be removed.

“Kraut grenade,” Speirs says matter-of-factly. 

“Uh-huh,” Eugene mumbles without looking up. 

Speirs takes his Thompson off his shoulder and places it on the table with a clanging noise. “You should see the other guy.”

Eugene finally looks up and meets the man’s dark eyes. He is unsure then, if the Lieutenant was kidding or not. He decides he wasn’t kidding. He discards the rag and sits back on the hay bail. “You won’t be needin’ any stitches, sir. But I’m gonna need to remove that shrapnel and bandage it.”

Eugene hesitates a moment at Speirs’ silence. “It's just this leg, then? 'Cause I gotta check you either way.”

Speirs takes the cigarette out from between his lips, a sudden milder expression on the parts of his face visible under the helmet. “Go on,” he says.

Eugene leans in, placing two fingers on the side of Speirs' neck to check the pulse - not too slow, not too fast. 

Speirs is unmoving, watching him. Eugene counts the heartbeats and the seconds in between. “Alright,” he says, mostly to himself, and moves to check the other man for any broken skin, hidden bleeding - running his hands quickly down Speirs’ torso and left thigh. 

He finishes and sits up again and looks at Speirs. “Need to check your head, sir” he remarks, motioning to the man’s helmet. Speirs doesn’t move.

Eugene blinks, frowns - and leans forward, carefully taking Speirs’ helmet off and placing it on the table next to the weapon. “Look at me,” he says routinely, but superfluously. 

Eugene checks the lieutenant’s pupils, before bringing both his hands up to the other man's neck, gently cupping his jaw and feeling for any swelling of the lymph nodes or any other signs of a fever or head trauma. 

Eugene can feel that damned flush creeping back into his face as he tries to remain professional, focusing on the diagnostic details in his head, procedure and manuals drilled into him in training. 

Speirs looked straight at him, briefly from Eugene’s eyes down to his lips and back up again. 

Eugene swallows heavily, brows permanently furrowed. “Good,” he says, finishing up and standing up as quickly as his feet would allow. He grabs a tray, some bandages and a pair of thin surgical pliers. “Now I’m sorry, but this might hurt some,” he says and sits back down on the hay, beginning to work.

“Sure,” Speirs says, head tilted watching the medic work. Eugene finds the shrapnel with ease, inching the piece of torn material out of Speirs’ skin as fresh blood rushes to the surface. 

“Lose any men yet, Doc?”

Eugene lifts out the shrapnel and puts it in the metal tray ready on the table. He raises an eyebrow at the question. “Yes,” he says quietly. “Evans, Able Company.”

Speirs nods and purses his lips. “Did you know him?”

“No, sir,” Eugene replies, wrapping one long bandage up and around the other man’s leg. “I did not know him.” He finishes bandaging, and stands up to discard the used supplies.

Speirs grabs his helmet, stands and swings his Thompson up on his shoulder. “Thank you, Doc,” he says to the medic. “Or do you prefer _Eugene_?”

Eugene freezes for a moment at the sound of an Officer using his first name - before turning to face the other man. “I, how did you know ----” he starts, but a group of men rushing into the barn carrying a wounded man on a stretcher interrupts him. 

Speirs smirks and puts the still unlit cigarette back into his mouth. 

He leans in as if he was about to confide in secret - and Eugene can’t help but notice their similar height and build - although Speirs was noticeably more muscular. “I would catch another grenade to have your hands on me again,” he says, close to Eugene’s ear.

Eugene swallows hard again, unbreathing and eyes wide, at a loss for words.

Speirs promptly puts his helmet back on, turns on his heel and disappears outside - walking easy.

Eugene’s thoughts race a hundred miles per minute, and he looks around to see if anyone else heard - or noticed, anything at all but besides the new arrivals there was no one within earshot, and they were all working on the wounded man on the ground.

Outside a voice calls out, “ _medic!_ ” - the now familiar call of duty. Eugene grabs some supplies and gets back to work.

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear the mature rating will eventually make sense.

Nightfall landed on D-Day, and the men had been given an hour to rest up before moving south. An hour’s rest did not really include the medics, Eugene thought to himself. He stood leaning up against a brick wall, shoving cold grub from a can into his mouth. He was tired, tired enough to fall asleep standing up.

“Hey, Doc, have some of this,” Toye says, popping up next to him with a bottle of French liquor. 

Eugene shakes his head, swallowing his food. “Thanks Joe, I’m alright.”

The men had started calling him Doc almost as soon as they’d jumped into France. Eugene wasn’t fond of nicknames, but he was beginning to see why most of the men had one. There was respect in it, even though he wasn’t a doctor, just a combat medic, he thought. Most were earned, with more or less respect - like Guarnere’s nickname. Like a badge of honor. 

Toye takes a big gulp beside him. “Bet you got your hands full, eh Doc? Fuckin’ Christ.”

Somewhere on the farm grounds a cow bellows loudly through the bustling battalion HQ.

“The Krauts got it good, though,” Toye says, seemingly happy to have an ear to listen to him. Eugene didn’t mind, as he scraped the bottom of the can. “Hey, did you hear about the Officer from D-Company?” Toye asks, leaning in with a hushed voice. 

Eugene had been staring into the empty can for a moment. “What? No,” he replies. 

“Well, get this - and I heard this from Malarkey so take it with a grain of salt. Apparently, he saw this one Officer from Dog lined up and butchered like, eight POW’s. Just like that,” Toye exclaims with a wave of his hand in the shape of a gun. “Gave ‘em cigarettes first, then just - poof.”

Eugene looks at Toye with his brows furrowed. “Why would an Officer do that?” 

“I don’t know, guy’s a fuckin’ maniac or something- allegedly,” Toye replies, taking another swig of his drink. 

Eugene straightens up with a loud crack from his spine. He knew he couldn’t linger for too long, they didn’t have much time to pack up all their gear and the temporary aid station. Men needed care and transport off the line. “Sorry, Joe, I gotta get back,” he says and tosses the empty can into some bushes. ‘

He puts his helmet back on his head, and that very same motion triggers the memory from earlier that day, of a handsome Officer, weapon always at the ready, who always seemed to have a cigarette in between his lips. An Officer who told him he wanted Eugene’s hands on him.

“Joe -” he starts, carefully. “Who was it? The Officer, I mean.” Eugene looks at Toye with the bottle at his lips, and there’s a pit in his stomach because he already knows it before he hears it.

Toye wipes the liquor from his mouth with the back of his hand, peers around to see if they could be overheard, and whispers “Lieutenant Speirs.”

***

_Carentan, D-Day +6_

It was a hard fight in Carentan, and Eugene has lost count of wounded and dead. He says a prayer for the fallen before he sleeps, and figures God won’t fault him for not remembering all of their names. He tries, though.

Before all of this, he could be asleep like a rock within minutes. Now, he found his mind racing with the events of the day, and his dreams were restless and dark. Sleep was a hard-earned luxury in war. 

He’d heard more rumors of Speirs and the POWs. The details changed, but the gist was the same. Eugene thought long and hard, but quickly realized he did not know enough about the man to separate truth from fiction. Speirs was a hard man to read, and he hadn’t seen the elusive Officer since D-Day. 

Those hazel eyes burned into his soul, still.

He’d pulled a ricochet out of Lieutenant Winters after Easy took the town. He’d been tempted to bring up the subject of the now infamous Officer, but couldn’t seem to find the words, afraid he’d somehow slip up and reveal too much - of himself, of their... whatever _it_ was between them. 

Or, it was nothing and Speirs was tormenting him for fun.

Whatever _it_ was, Eugene hoped it wasn’t enough to get them both lined up and shot. 

Yet.

A young private named Blithe had come in, and Eugene diagnosed him with hysterical blindness - a condition most likely brought on by shock, and severe psychological stress.

Out of all the problems he could be dealing with, at least he still had his wits about him, Eugene thought, and hoped it would stay that way.

At the newest makeshift aid station - a small abandoned post office in Carentan - he buried himself in work.

***

Speirs is surveying the men dug in in their hedgerows around a field surrounding the enemy outside Carentan. It’s nighttime and pitch black, a light drizzle of rain tapping on his helmet now and then. His footsteps are fast, and expertly light and silent. 

A distance across the fields, the enemy was singing German drinking songs. He felt cold, yet warm at the same time - one hand always on his Thompson. It had been six or so days since the Doc pulled shrapnel out of his leg, and the wound had healed well. He wishes it hadn’t.

“ _Medic_!” A voice shouts from somewhere in the forest in front of him. Speirs halts, and listens. Yelps of agony follow, and Speirs changes course toward the sound to see what was happening, and to see who else answered the call.

Speirs is met with a chaotic scene. A clearly wounded Talbert on the ground propped up against a tree and a private he didn’t recognize mumbling in shock about how _I didn’t know, and I’m sorry_ \- and with Liebgott trying to calm him down.

And Eugene Roe kneeling next to Talbert. 

“What happened?” Speirs demands from the stuttering private in the foxhole. Liebgott answers, “Smith here got spooked and Talbert got the business end of the bayonet.”

Talbert groans.

“Doc.” Speirs says and kneels down next to Eugene. “What do you need?”

Eugene shoots him a quick glance, and his face is hard, focused on the task at hand. He doesn’t reply and looks back to his patient. “Talbert, hey - you’re gonna be fine.”

Speirs watches him work for a moment, fascinated by Eugene’s pale and somehow elegant hands searching for the wound in the dark, under layers of raincoat and uniform. He finds what he was looking for, and reaches for a bag of sulfa powder, lightly pouring it on earning another groan from Talbert.

Eugene’s face is open, calm, and reassuring. “You’re alright, Talbert,” he says. “Help him up,” Eugene says, and Liebgott lifts under Talbert’s arms.

Speirs moves to help, but Eugene stops him, putting one hand on his chest and looks him directly in the eye. “‘S alright, Lieutenant, we got it from here,” he says and grabs Talbert and carries him away into the dark.

Speirs watches them go, before turning to Smith, still shivering with shock. “Stay in your hole, private,” Speirs says and leaves back the same way he came.

Speirs files the memory of Eugene’s calm, reassuring expression and pale, bloodied hands away in his mind when Blithe comes scampering through the woods. “Flash,” Speirs says.

“Thunder -- _thunder_!” Blithe replies, finally.

For God’s sake, Speirs thinks. These jumpy young privates are all going to die.

***


	4. Chapter 4

_D-Day +25_

It’s been some days since Carentan, and Easy was still breaking new ground in France. Eugene sits crouched behind a tree, intently watching the men move up in front. He absentmindedly picks at a hangnail.

The now all-too familiar call for aid echoes through the trees, and Eugene sprints to the front. “ _Move, comin’ thru!_ ”

Gunshot wound to the neck, a sniper. It looked bad, but as Eugene puts pressure on the wound, he thinks the private is going to make it. It was Blithe, who went blind sometime around D-Day. 

Eugene sends a silent thanks to the Heavens he got there fast enough this time. 

Eugene rides with Blithe on the transport back to Battalion, applying pressure on the wound and fresh bandages when necessary. He hears from the other medic riding with them that Easy were getting pulled off the line, and sent to camp up north. And, talk of England after that.

After Carentan, he’d lost track - as usual - of Lieutenant Speirs, after Dog and Fox on their left flank got nearly overrun by Panzers. He’d heard a lot of men were lost. 

Eugene was somehow sure Speirs was one of the ones who made it, although had kept his ear to the ground about any news of fallen Officers. None such news had come, and now the regiment was moving off the line.

Eugene didn’t know how to feel - it wasn’t relief, but something more like frustration. He was loath to criticize the timing or logistics of orders, but these orders felt to him, too little, too late.

“Blithe, how you doin’? We’re almost there,” he says, reassuring the young man. 

Blithe doesn’t say anything until they get back, and he’s all been stitched up. He’s lying on a stretcher, staring up into nothing. “Doc Roe?”

Eugene kneels beside the man. “What is it, Blithe? How’s your pain?”

“I’m okay, Doc,” Blithe says, and they both know he is lying. “I don’t - ” he starts, hesitating, wincing a little at moving his jaw. “I don’t think I’m a very good soldier, Doc.”

“Now that’s just nonsense,” Eugene replies, “and I won’t be hearin’ none of it, Blithe.”

Blithe is quiet for a moment, and Eugene puts a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Lieutenant Speirs told me it was easy, but I don’t think it is,” Blithe continues.

Eugene freezes.

“He said we should... accept the fact that we’re already dead,” Blithe explains, swallowing hard. He blinks away a quick tear that makes its way down his temple. “That the war depends on it but - but I don’t think I can do that.”

Blithe shakes his head softly to himself.

Eugene inhales sharply, balling his hands into fists at his sides. “Blithe, listen here,” he starts, putting all his might into keeping his composure.

“I got one though,” Blithe interrupts, putting his hand over a small, white flower pinned to his coat. “Lieutenant Winters, he - he helped me out,” he says, making eye contact with Eugene for the first time. 

Eugene gives Blithe a quick smile. “That’s good, Blithe - Lieutenant Winters is good man,” he manages to say, clenching his back teeth together. “You’d do best to listen to him.”

Two other medics walk up, and grab Blithe’s stretcher. They lift him onto the back of an army vehicle. Eugene taps his leg twice as a half-hearted goodbye. “Watch yourself now,” he says and looks on as the truck starts up and drives the wounded private away.

Eugene stands for a moment, inhaling and exhaling the wet air that smelled like mud and gasoline. He rubs his neck roughly, trying to still the fire burning inside of him.

“Doc,” a voice says coming from next to him - it was Lieutenant Winters' low, calm tone. “Did you send Blithe off okay?”

Eugene turns to the taller man, frowning. He takes a deep breath. “Yes, sir.”

“Alright, good,” Winters replies, scanning the Doc’s face for a second. “We’re moving out in a few… How does a hot shower sound?”

Eugene doesn’t answer immediately, and Winters is about to inquire if something was wrong, as the Doc wasn’t normally this tensed up. 

Eugene adjusts his helmet and looks up at Winters. “Sir, where the hell is Dog Company?”

***

_Field Camp, Utah Beach_

A large truck pulls up to a row of green tents next to a small woodland, surrounded by sandbags and temporary fencing. Speirs jumps down from the back of the truck, holding on to his weapon and helmet. 

The day was ending as the regiment arrived in the Camp north of Utah, hundreds of men piling off trucks into the knee-high grass. Speirs took a deep breath, smelling the fresh sea air blowing in from the beach beyond.

An American flag swayed gently in the breeze.

His hair was stuck to his head from sweat, dust, mud, war paint and grime. He headed straight for the showers and the brief reprieve of hot water showering his face and back was indescribable. 

The Officers were lodged a stone’s throw away, in incrementally larger, sturdier tents. Speirs ducks his head under the canvas opening and, - thank God, the tent was empty for the time being - and throws his few belongings onto an available cot. 

He carefully props his Thompson up on the foot locker by the foot of the bed. 

He rubs his head of wet hair roughly with a towel, before taking off his muddied coat, shirt and undershirt, leaving only pants and boots. He shoves the dirty laundry into a laundry bag, throws the towel around his neck and sits heavily down on the bed, rubbing his face with both hands and scraping them through his hair.

They were flying back to England ASAP, so he knew he most likely did not have time for sleep. He ponders the importance of sleep versus hot grub for a moment, absentmindedly rubbing his still-bandaged knee that was growing a mighty itch.

“You-son-of-a-bitch,” he hears from the tent’s opening, and in bursts Eugene Roe, dark-eyed and furious. “I oughta kick your ass into purgatory for what you did, you heartless _Couyon_ ,” Eugene nearly spits. 

Speirs stands up, a confused look on his face. “Nice to see you too.” He puts his hands up briefly, in a surrendering fashion, before scrunching his face up. “What did you just call me?”

Eugene points at him angrily, tearing his helmet off of his head. “I got a bone to pick with you, Lieutenant.” 

“Alright,” Speirs replies pointedly. “What’s on your mind, Eugene?”

Eugene sends him a look at the sound of his first name, then continues. “Blithe. You know what you did,” he says. “ _Sir_ ,” he adds. 

Speirs thinks back to a private Blithe, and remembers the jumpy soldier in the woods outside Carentan. “Ah, Blithe,” he says with a nod. “So this isn’t about -- anything else.”

Eugene narrows his eyes, refusing to change the subject. “Your lil’ speech? Tellin’ him he’s already dead? That is not helpin’, not in any damn way!”

“I saw a scared young trooper and I told him the truth,” Speirs says calmly, taking a step closer to the medic, damp skin aglow in the orange lamp light. “He could handle it.”

“You don’t know that,” Eugene replies. “We might be at war, Lieutenant, 'cept we’re not all dead inside like you,” he snaps.

The tent flaps behind them peek open, and Nixon pops his head in, smiling. “Hey, hey now,” he says and walks slowly into the tent, a bottle of something strong in one hand. Speirs always wondered how Nixon always found the good stuff. 

“What’s this, a lover’s quarrel?” Nixon smiles wide, awaiting at least a few half-hearted laughs, but there is none from either of the men. His smile drops slowly.

Eugene glares at Speirs like he was pretty certain no one else had ever glared at him before, before straightening himself. “Lieutenant,” Eugene says, dripping with ill-concealed anger and puts his helmet back on. He nods to Nixon before ducking back out of the tent, into the gloom.

Speirs watches him leave with an indistinguishable look on his face. 

“I’ve never seen that man angry before,” Nixon says, offering Speirs a drink. 

“Yeah.” Speirs accepts it, taking a large gulp, swallowing the bitter liquid thoughtfully. "We had a disagreement. I'll talk to him."

Nixon takes the bottle back. “By the way uh, put some clothes on. We’re going back to England,” he says while mockingly toasting the air.

***


End file.
